


What Dreams May Come

by ApocryphaGlibbe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27433951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApocryphaGlibbe/pseuds/ApocryphaGlibbe
Summary: Coda for s15/e18Y'all, I haven't written fanfic in about 6 years. But when you have to, you have to.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	What Dreams May Come

Dean knows he is gone, for good and forever, but his dreams of Cas are relentless. 

Some nights, he comes to Dean as a beautiful woman with a wide smile and they whisper breathlessly together. They give themselves to each other hungrily, in beds and backseats and bathroom stalls that smell of stale beer. Cas is wanton and imaginative, selfish and demanding and so sweet Dean wakes warm and sweaty with tears on his cheeks. 

Some nights, Cas comes as a man, and Dean stands taller, plants his feet apart and speaks too loudly. Cas waits him out, lets his stare linger long enough for color to rise in Dean’s cheeks. Their conversation moves from banter to small admissions of disappointment, personal demons, how the path of one’s life narrows until one day it disappears. They stand side by side, leaning against the brick wall of an alley that reverberates with music from the room beyond. Dean bumps Cas’ shoulder in a warm, familiar way, and Cas leans into it, into the playful, dangerous connection, narrows the crackling distance between them. A few thumping, rushing heartbeats later, Dean turns his face away and breathes Cas’ name. If it is a denial, it is unconvincing. When Cas brings his hand to Dean’s flushed cheek and calls to him, Dean answers. Their lips meet for the first time, every time is the first time, every dream the same awakening, and Dean lets Cas kiss and murmur his way beneath the armor. Again and again, they return here, repeating each other’s names with rhythm and devotion, like a psalm. 

Other nights Cas comes to Dean as a lost puppy with fur the color of canvas. 

He comes as a grandmother singing softly as she presses dough into a pie tin. 

He comes as a rumpled kid with wild hair and holes in the knees of his jeans. He is the son Dean might have had, and they toss the ball around, cruise fast in the car with the radio blaring, and eat sloppy hamburgers from Dean’s favorite diner. They sit on the couch, Dean’s arm around Cas’ narrow shoulders, the scapulas sharp as severed wings, and watch trash TV for hours. They laugh and joke and the child-Cas elbows Dean roughly in the ribs when Dean leans close to inhale the scent of his hair. 

And then some nights, he is simply Cas in a crooked blue tie, perched at the edge of the bed to watch Dean sleep. Dean keeps his eyes closed, letting the angel drink him in, letting silence speak the words. Dean slides a hand from beneath the sheet and lets Cas grip it tightly. If Cas runs his thumb slowly across the callused skin of his palm, who could judge Dean for the shiver that creeps up his spine? This is a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent who holds his hand. This is a divine being of unspeakable might who watches over him, and presses his lips to Dean’s knuckles. This is an angel who loves him.


End file.
